Curative
by ayafangirl
Summary: Murdoc's bad behavior starts to hit on Russel's last nerve. The result is something neither of them could have called for...but neither one of them is complaining. Oneshot, PWP. Warnings for mentions of violence. Songfic, kind of.


_A/N: Hey guys, Aya's back with more smut, this time in the form of Russel/Murdoc (Russdoc?)!_

 _Fun fact: in order to write this fic I looked at that amazing chart from Rise of the Ogre that maps out each bandmate and their musical inspiration. I looked at some of the bands that Murdoc and Russel were mutually inspired by, and settled on Led Zeppelin. Only I didn't really know their discography that well. That led to a couple of months where I listened to nothing but Zeppelin while commuting to and from work to give me a sense of their music, and which would suit the tone of this fic the best._

 _After all that, I found no more appropriate album than their first one. And so, this semi-songfic was born. Do people even still write songfics? I'm not sure. This may be a fabulous throwback to late-2000s for us all. The songs used are "You Shook Me" and "Dazed and Confused", both off of_ Led Zeppelin _. If you don't know them, I STRONGLY recommend giving them a listen!_

 _Anywho, enjoy!_

 **Curative**

Of course he knew it when he saw it.

It was attention-seeking behavior.

The same petulant, childlike antics that Del had once pulled in his living days in attempts to gain attention, to garner the semblance of admiration from others. It was a tired technique, one that proved deadly for a young man of color living in the wrong neighborhood in Brooklyn, and one that was none too flattering on the self-assigned _leader_ of the band Gorillaz, the infuriating Murdoc Niccals.

Frankly, his attitude just rubbed Russel Hobbs the wrong way.

Murdoc's hobbies included going on benders, starting rumors about other celebrities and spreading them to petty magazines, tormenting their poor frontman Stuart "2D" Pot, and generally acting like the kind of Id-driven superstar caricature that made for short-lived and shitty sitcoms. Early in his life, he had clearly come to learn that negative attention was the easiest kind of attention to get, and so his life became a constant attempt to turn heads in the worst ways imaginable.

Perhaps his most infuriating quality was Murdoc's tendency to challenge anyone who tried to steal the spotlight from him for more than a second. He dominated interviews, lacing his commentary with constant asides aimed at putting 2D down and embarrassing him until the poor singer was too red-faced with embarrassment to add any input to questions, or nearly unconscious from the anti-anxiety pills he always carried on him and swallowed like water whenever Murdoc's mismatched eyes landed on him. Whenever his authority as "leader" or "visionary" of the band was challenged, Murdoc turned into a veritable child, stammering out insults and asserting his dominance like his manhood depended on it.

In hindsight, Russel wondered if his urge to step up and shoot Murdoc down stemmed from having seen Del act in a similar fashion in his short life: dependent on antiquated notions of hypermasculinity and a desperation to stick it to the the vague and ubiquitous "man." Russel would never forget the black truck, the shadowy figures within, emerging slowly as their windows rolled down, revealing sleek pistols. The soft hiss of "shit," under Del's breath as his hand moved like lightening, shoving Russel down beneath him in the back of their friend's beat-up Chrysler K-car just as the passengers in the other vehicle opened fire.

The warm spray of Del's blood as it washed over him.

Sentiment? Just a bad case of PTSD? Russel could never figure what it was, but he simply couldn't shake the sense that Del and Murdoc were cut from the same cloth, deeply troubled and dangerously clever artists who drew misfortune in like magnets. And where there was a problematic troublemaker, he felt it was his duty to step in and calm them down. That's why Russel went in, fearless, with the goal of taming Murdoc.

When Murdoc fucked 2D's girlfriend Paula, Russel didn't hesitate in the slightest to punch him with all his might, breaking Murdoc's nose for the eighth time in the smaller man's life. During interviews, Russel found himself breaking out of his more reserved nature, taking a subtle pleasure in the annoyance that began to sketch itself in the corners of Murdoc's mouth, the faint flare of his nostrils, the twitch of his fingers, when he would cut the bassist off to interject or disagree. Sometimes, he would bluntly state that Murdoc's self-centered accounts of the band's history and success were false. It was fun to see the surprise ripple on the Satanist's face before a dark, hideous anger would begin to steep over his features. The first time their child guitarist, Noodle, uttered a curse word, Russel knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that it was because she was parroting the bassist. So he enforced a swear jar, making Murdoc put a five-pound note in every time he cursed in front of the girl. Eventually, Russel promised her, Murdoc was going to take her out and buy her a new guitar with the money. Noodle loved this idea; Murdoc simmered, arguing that he was being treated like a child himself.

Murdoc's anger was a beast of its own, wild, hard to track, and often accompanied by violence. Not that the drummer was much intimidated by Murdoc's shaking fists or scratchy yells.

There was a special pride to be had in his self-assigned task as the one to rein Murdoc in. He knew he couldn't stop the bassist's destructive behaviors. Murdoc continued to drink himself silly, to smoke around the impressionable Noodle and to badmouth 2D. But in public, he was forced to yield just a bit of his insane ways, his desperate grasps for attention, because Russel simply would not take his shit.

He didn't know exactly how Murdoc felt about the antagonism, at least not for a while. Then one night, the drummer noticed that his record collection had been rifled through. Noodle looking for a lost toy? A groupie sneaking into Kong and going through their belongings in the hopes of finding a souvenir? When he realized that his vinyl copy of _Led Zeppelin_ was missing, he realized with horror that he wasn't sure if he had left it in his room or not. Had someone taken it, or had he been listening to it somewhere? Playing the album for 2D a few weeks earlier rang a bell. Rushing downstairs, Russel first tried the living room. Empty pizza boxes and game consoles were the only thing to be found there. The same could be said of the parlor. Figuring he'd check the radio room before asking the singer if he remembered where they had put the album (and praying that 2D remembered in spite of his drug-addled, brain damaged skull), he rushed further downstairs.

The sound of a familiar bass riff made him freeze in his tracks on the staircase. He was level with the car park, and following the music, he found himself standing outside of Murdoc's Winnebago, rage making his blood feel molten at this point as Robert Plant's vocals rang out, echoing on the concrete walls of the car park.

 _You know, you shook me._

 _You shook me alllll niiiight looooooong._

He'd pounded on the door, thinking as he clenched and unclenched his fists, that Murdoc was just an overgrown child, acting out to get negative attention because that was better than no attention at all. He'd felt even more livid, but refrained from jumping headfirst into physical violence, as Murdoc opened the door of his private "residence," eyes unfocused and red-rimmed with drink, stance slouchy, and smirk absolutely demonic.

Russel had lost control at that point, launching into a verbal tirade of why Murdoc needed to learn his place, why he was nothing more than a little prick and why Russel ought to teach him a goddamn lesson.

But something went terribly wrong.

Probably because Murdoc was awfully drunk.

Because suddenly he was launching forward and smashing his whiskey-flavored lips into Russel's, his hands on the drummer's shoulders more to steady himself than to hold the taller man close. The kiss was wet and hard, and Russel was about to push the smaller man off of him, ask him what the fuck he thought he was doing, when Murdoc pulled back just enough to slur against his lips.

"Then why don't you teach me?"

And something snapped.

Suddenly Russel's hands were on Murdoc's slim hips and he was kissing back with bruising strength, backing Murdoc up the stairs and back into his Winnebago. He half-carried, half-shoved him inside until they were able to fall onto the bassist's bed, and only then did Russel pull back long enough to swallow a few desperate breaths of air and look down to assess Murdoc. The bassline of the album's next song made the Winnie's windows rattle.

 _Been dazed and confused for so long, it's not true,_

 _Wanted a woman never bargained for you._

The bassist lay on his back, thick black hair mussed, mouth parted, and chest heaving for oxygen. Properly aroused by what he saw, Russel dove back down for more. In record time they were both nude, their slick bodies sliding against each other. Murdoc produced a small bottle of lube seemingly out of thin air, and Russel dug through his pants pocket for his wallet, producing a condom. Here, the drummer hesitated for the first time, wondering at Murdoc's ability to consent properly, seeing how far gone he was with drink. But the bassist rolled onto his stomach just then, propped his ass up a bit and turned to Russel with a smirk, insisting the drummer "put him in his proper place."

 _You hurt and abuse, tellin' all of your lies,_

 _Run around, sweet baby, Lord how you hypnotize._

With that, all coherent thoughts left Russel's mind and suddenly he was sinking deep, deep into the body beneath him. Suddenly Murdoc's back was arching spectacularly, a strangled yell forcing its way out of his mouth as his nails dug into his sheets. And suddenly Russel was thrusting with an animalistic brutality, feeling all of the pent up fury unleash itself. Murdoc's abusive attitude towards his friends, his cocky arrogance towards the press, his whiny tone when he wasn't getting his way during a recording session: it all came out and Russel found himself yanking at Murdoc's hips and pulling his hair until the bassist threatened to break below him.

Murdoc never did seem to mind though.

Between gasps and cries, the only words he ever got out were words of encouragement: "harder," or "like you mean it," as he rocked back into the unrelenting pistoning of Russel's hips.

After the wild fuck, Russel collapsed beside the bassist, who instantly lit two cigarettes and offered him one. The drummer took the offering, wondering vaguely who he was (he hardly ever smoked), and realizing only then that the album Murdoc had nicked and blasted had come to an end.

They smoked in silence.

What surprised Russel the most about the entire happening was how well the bassist was able to walk the next day as they both went about their business, pointedly avoiding interacting whenever necessary and generally going about as though the encounter had never happened. And that was that.

But it was only a matter of weeks before Russel found himself fighting with Murdoc in their recording studio. Noodle and 2D were upstairs, having left as soon as the actual recording stopped. The processing and editing of sounds held little interest for either of them, and the drummer and the bassist rapidly went from disagreeing on what pitch a honking horn sound in "Slow Ride" should be to screaming about whose vision for Gorillaz was the better one.

Somehow screaming wasn't enough, and suddenly Russel lunged at Murdoc. The second his hand caught the smaller man's shoulder, he could feel all of the muscles in the bassist's body tense. The drummer leaned in close, hand closing hard and feeling sinew and bone; Murdoc's pupils widened noticeably and he froze, bracing for pain. The sight of him suddenly fearful and vulnerable turned Russel on in ways it shouldn't have, and rather than striking his bandmate, he found himself shoving Murdoc down face-first over their mixing board and sucking the back of his neck. Hard. Murdoc gasped, keened, arched back.

So went their second fuck, rushed and a bit uncomfortable. The thrill of sex was heightened by the threat of one of their bandmates coming down to check on them at any moment, and it took little time before Russel's vision exploded in sun-colored hues and he found his release deep inside of the bass player, who whimpered incoherently as he dirtied the display screen beneath him, sharp nails nearly ripping a key off one of 2D's keyboards as his hands scrambled for purchase.

After the recording studio incident, a certain tension was lost between them. Their mutual attraction having been made clear, they both fell into a pattern, with Russel occasionally showing up at the Winnebago with a sixpack and some records regardless of whether or not they had been fighting recently. Similarly, Murdoc began spending more time out of his Winnie and exploring Kong, finding Russel's favorite places to be alone and joining him, watching the drummer write song lyrics and a few bars of music here and there. These moments were not always followed by fierce sex; sometimes they would part without even exchanging a kiss.

But whenever the two did turn their activities to the bedroom, the ground rule always remained: Russel took none of Murdoc's bullshit.

Whatever naughty things Murdoc had been up to lately (and realistically, he was ALWAYS up to something naughty,) were punished with hair-pulling, spanking, and a lot of dirty talk. Locked away in one of their bedrooms, the bassist became putty in Russel's hands, eager to be tied down or gagged, always up for a little breathplay or biting.

Because still, Murdoc was a total knob; a negative attention-seeking prat. And a little punishment in the form of spanking and the occasional flirtation with bondage was hardly out of the question.

After all, that smart mouth was just asking for a slap.


End file.
